


Winning Wars

by stormiscoming



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormiscoming/pseuds/stormiscoming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About winning wars, and making mistakes.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Wanted, wanted: Kuroko Tetsuya, for stealing Akashi Seijuro’s beating heart straight from his chest.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Winning Wars

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroko no Basuke. I do not make any profit from this.

As the popular belief dictated, Seijuro did not look like his mother.

He thought he ought to be disappointed.  His memories of her were like a roll of scratched, tangled up negatives; Seijuro hardly was able to see the images even under a bright light, and every time he attempted to develop them, the pictures would not show.

He really, really ought to be disappointed, but he was not.  He tried feeling remorse when he looked into the mirror every day, looking for and failing to find what was left of his mother in him, but he did not discover them.  If he had ever felt remorse, it was a sunk ship in the middle of the limitless ocean: forever gone.

The only time Seijuro celebrated her was when it benefited him.  If he had to talk about kindness, he would talk about his mother, and only because there was nothing kind about his father. 

“You must have loved your mother very much,” said Tetsuya when Seijuro treated his swollen ankle.

“Yes,” Seijuro lied. 

There was a kind of smile Tetsuya reserved only for his lights.  Gentle, nectared, and endearing thing; Seijuro did not know that the enchanting little gesture could be directed at him.  When Tetsuya did, dimple in his left cheek and eyes curved and closed, Seijuro felt like he had won a long, gratuitous war he did not know he had fought.

* * *

 

Every morning, Seijuro felt he was waking up in the wrong body.

It was quite possible, Seijuro thought, that he had been a god once.  But gods did not win wars; they blessed them—and perhaps this was a mistake Seijuro did that he was banished to this piteous form: he had meddled too much in the mortals’ business. 

But it made a little sense that Seijuro had made a mistake—he fancied himself not capable of making one.  In the case that he did, however, the other gods probably did not foresee Seijuro refusing to be the pawn in the game.  Even now when he was one himself, he wasn’t quite able to deny the temptation of manipulating humans.  If he had been expelled from his godly duties in hope that he would stop, then turning him to one was a big, bad decision; for Seijuro now was having even more fun—these mortals, they did not know they were part of something bigger.  Look how destitute they were, dancing on Seijuro’s palms, pulled by invisible strings Seijuro held.

Seijuro imagined it must have been incredibly boring, as a god, because then he would have too much tricks up his sleeves. 

But then Seijuro caught a glimpse of Tetsuya’s smile (saccharine and tender, for his lights—Seijuro did not worry, for bright lights would burn out, as the force of nature’s principle) and he thought about winning wars and making mistakes; and suddenly he was certain that he did allow himself to make one mistake back then, and it was this: falling in love with a mere human; Tetsuya, _Tetsuya_ , Seijuro’s lips chanted, _Tetsuya_ , a palette of pale colors, a dream-blue earthling; so extraordinary in his ordinariness.

Seijuro told Tetsuya all of that one evening. 

“I’m very ordinary, yes,” was what Tetsuya said, flatly. 

“I said you are very extraordinary, in your ordinariness,” Seijuro rebuked.

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing. Anyway, you are not allowed to pout like that, and you miss my point by a mile.”

Tetsuya scowled, or attempted to, and he looked like a baby owl ruffling his feathers to look like a hawk.  “I do not pout.”

“Tetsuya,” Seijuro sighed, impatiently.  “I have just said that I love you.”

With that said, it seemed like finally Seijuro got his point across.  Color began to fill Tetsuya’s face, and Seijuro’s heart beat so hard like he had been playing basketball for three hours against himself.

“Akashi-kun,” Tetsuya said, after a long while.  “Would you mind giving me time to think about it?’

* * *

 

Perhaps Tetsuya had not been human himself.  A god of eros, he was, for no other could quite strike fire low in Seijuro’s stomach like him.  Or—a servant of the serpent, who specialized in shooting arrows at gods’ hearts. 

He had drunk the philter, and Tetsuya was the potion master—and this was a war in which Seijuro was in the losing side, weak by the stare of Tetsuya’s celestial eyes and his moony smile.  Wanted, wanted: Kuroko Tetsuya, for stealing Akashi Seijuro’s beating heart straight from his chest.

“Thank you,” was the preamble to Tetsuya’s rejection.  “But Akashi-kun, I’m sorry, I-“

“I understand,” Seijuro said.

Tetsuya reached out to him, and Seijuro wanted to dodge, for he felt he would die if the other touched him.  But he let Tetsuya’s hand settle on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Akashi-kun.”

“I will have you, you know,” said Seijuro.

Tetsuya nodded, like he was not expecting less.  He did not recoil when Seijuro took his wrist, offering a smile instead (three times, Seijuro counted; he would catch up to Aomine and Kagami’s number soon).  Tetsuya had always been bad at stepping down from a challenge. 

“Do your worst, Akashi-kun.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please go easy on me


End file.
